


One for the Road

by EmeraldSage



Series: The Holiday Collection [8]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cold War, Day 8, Heart Matches, Heartbreak, M/M, Prompt: Mistletoe, RusAmeHoliday, RusAmeHolidayPrompt, Soulmate AU, Still Nation-Verse, promise for more, protective england
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-08
Updated: 2016-12-08
Packaged: 2018-09-07 06:52:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8787970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldSage/pseuds/EmeraldSage
Summary: RusAme Holiday Prompt #8: Mistletoe
Sorry for the Angst, loves.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, good bit of angst in here. Hoping to do better tomorrow, but it'll still be pretty angsty. Pretty short too, in comparison, but I'm working on four 10 page papers, so wish me luck! Lot of angst, possessive Russia, young America, let's go!

            The tension in the air was breathtaking and chilling at the same time. He felt like he was trapped in an hourglass: buffeted on all sides by the sands of time, feeling each granule brushing up against him and slipping through his fingers, knowing that the moment time ran out, the glass would shatter and Russia would leave. And then nothing would be the same, ever again. His hands were trembling, and he bit his lip viciously, wincing, as he tried to control himself. But it was too chilling, too heart wrenching, and he was too young. He wasn’t of Europe, of the ages of casual dalliance, established dominance, and carelessness, like his father, his _papa_ , and like his lover.

            He was young, he was naïve, and he was in love.

            In love with a man who would see his nation turned to rubble, and his people little more than ashes in the wind. He choked back the sob that wanted to emerge. He should have _known_ something like this would happen; should’ve known that Russia had not been the same ever since his Revolution. But the first time he’d seen the other after the Russian Civil War, he’d _asked_ , knowing that the communists had been trying to create a system that would be his fundamental opposite; he’d pleaded with the elder nation, and had been reassured nothing would change between them.

            He’d been swept off his feet, wrapped in a comforting embrace, as Russia had lied to his face, and he’d let his guard down and believed it.

            He spun around and made his way to the bedroom they’d shared, unable to meet that piercing, impassive violet gaze any longer; not when all he could see was the love, warmth, and gentle desire that had once been in their mirror image. He clicked the lock shut – painfully, agonizingly _aware_ that if Russia truly wanted to get into their room, he would be able to – and slid down against the wooden portal until he was sitting on the paneled flooring, his knees bent close to his chest, and his heart ready to explode. He lifted a hand to the agonizing pain in his chest and it _ached_ in a way it hadn’t in years.

            Why had things turned out like this?

* * *

 

           _He was young, so young; barely a teenager in the humans’ eyes, but he was old enough to recognize the way he felt was so unusual. In all his years of life – which when compared to his father’s, admittedly wasn’t much – he had never felt the sensations he had now. His chest was aching, painfully, agonizingly so – but not necessarily in a bad way. It felt like a good ache – like when his native people would burn the land after a harvest in order to return strength to the soil; fire was purity, fire was **life** after all – and he knew that once he found the source of it, and embraced it, he would never be able to live without it._

_But where was it coming from?_

_“Alfred?” England’s voice sounded from behind him, and he whirled to face the concern hidden within his father’s verdant eyes, “Is something wrong, boy?”_

_They were in England’s palatial manor home back in the outskirts of London, where the Empire had brought him to introduce him to some of the nations that lived in Europe. It had been a very reluctant concession the Empire had given to him – for it had been America who had fought for his right to see the Empires of Europe his father had shielded him from – on pains that he would be very careful, and suppress his aura so none of them presumed him to be anything but an ordinary human teenager._

            _Not that it was very effective, he thought. He was almost positive that the few nations who kept studying him speculatively had their own suspicions about who he was._

_“Everything is fine, sir,” he said softly, slipping into the oddly formal address the Empire demanded of him given the current circumstances; it felt distinctly strange not to call the elder nation ‘father’. England huffed, glanced around discretely, before nodding, clasping a hand on his shoulder before moving away._

_But it wasn’t like the elder could stay too long without revealing who he was._

_He didn’t stay in the corner for long, of course. Though he was careful to avoid those he knew were nations – discretely, though his father and his brother believed him incapable of such a thing – and played the role England had set up for him, as the young son of the candidate for Foreign Minister. It wasn’t long though, until he got bored from the role he was acting out. No one wanted to speak with a child, after all, and especially not one who had no confirmed political status._

_He’d wandered outside, onto the large, wrap-around balcony on one of the upper levels, when he felt that pain and throb in his heart increase to triple the rate it had been before, and slipped on a missed patch of ice when he jumped at the sudden feeling. He braced himself for a painful collision with the unforgiving cold stone, only to be met with a strong grip holding him up, supporting him and righting him upright once he’d regained his balance. The arms left him, then, and he felt bereft all of a sudden, only then noticing that the ache in his heart had vanished the moment those arms had touched him, and had returned when they left. He whirled, startled, to catch the other behind him, and froze._

_It was Russia._

_“M-my apologies,” he stuttered a bit, reminding himself of where he was and who he was **supposed** to be, “I was being careless. Thank you for catching me, sir.”_

_The other’s violet eyes studied him, and he could see amusement and fascination of equal measure in their depths. The other – dressed fancily, in his military dress, as only an imperial nation of true strength could – inclined his head in acknowledgement, and his lips quirked._

_“I cannot disagree with your carelessness,” was the first thing he heard the Russian say, and it seemed to calm something within him, “but ice catches even the most vigilant unaware. May I have your name, young one?” He blinked. The other wanted **his** name?_

_“U-Um,” he stuttered, and flushed at his own actions, “My name is Alfred Jones, sir.” The nation hummed, staring at the colony with interest and an odd emotion he couldn’t quite recognize from first glance, though it looked quite familiar for some reason._

_“Alfred Jones, hm?” he said, rolling the name in his mouth around, almost possessively, and he flushed at the way it sounded, and “I am Ivan Braginsky. Your father has done quite a spectacular job concealing you from the rest of the world,” he continued, and America felt a stone drop into his stomach when he realized what the words meant, face paling, “I was quite surprised to see you here tonight.”_

_“I-I…” he couldn’t seem to get words out, and Russia smirked at his speechlessness._

_“I would not be adverse to seeing you again, though,” the man added, sending him spluttering again in shock. A hand reached out and encircled his wrist, and he felt the agony in his heart thump to a standstill and vanish. The empire looked at where their skin was in contact with a contemplative gaze, and America had the feeling he was missing something very important._

_“Until later, then, **solnyshko** ,” the Russian said, ignoring the stunned silence from the young colony, dipped his head to press a kiss to the bare wrist he was holding captive, and vanished, leaving behind a stunned blond to contemplate what had just happened._

* * *

 

            He had asked England later that evening, once the party had wound down and he and his father had retreated to the private, family wing, what it meant when one’s heart was in such agony. England’s grip had shattered the teacup he’d been sipping from, and his abrupt rise from his seat had dislodged the tray perched precariously between their two chairs, sending it clattering to the floor.

            His actual reaction had been as startling as his instinctive one. The empire – possibly forgetting his strength, perhaps intentionally utilizing it – had seized the young colony by the arms with a bone bruising grip, pulling him up to eye level before demanding where he had been when the feeling had started and who he’d been with. He’d ignored the anxious, mildly frightened look America had been giving him and demanded the answer. He seemed far from reassured when he’d been told that it had happened when they’d been down at the party – that it had been bothering him almost all night – but he didn’t know who had caused it.

            England had let go of him then, but he had never forgotten the grim look of determination that had crossed his father’s face, nor the fleeting hint of regret before it passed. The next day, he’d been shipped back to his own lands, and not long after, word had reached him about taxes being passed in Parliament for his people; taxes that they had never been informed about, nor were they aware of the necessity of.

            And that had been the beginning. He hadn’t known, then, what England had realized that night; hadn’t known for a long time until he’d been snatched away by his former-colonizer one night in 1814 and been ruthlessly interrogated about that feeling, and who it was for. That night he’d learnt what England had known from the beginning; only a nation could develop a soul mate bond with another nation. And though he hadn’t known what it had been when he’d felt it, England had, which – come to think of it – had explained a good deal of what his father had forced his people through shortly after the realization, in an attempt to stall the inevitable.

            Russia had known, too, he recalled. He’d been informed later, when he’d been swept off his feet into the realm of nationhood and alliances and _love_ , that Russia had known from the moment he’d entered the room and felt his heart leap and ache and _yearn_ for someone it had never known but somehow _knew_ regardless.

            He sighed. It felt wrong to long for those days following his war, when he had finally been free to make his own choices, not only for the people he embodied, but for himself and for his heart. He still remembered Russia’s careful courtship – he hadn’t realized what it had been until England had blurted it out in his fury, not realizing that America truly _hadn’t known_ , and he’d given it away – and how it had only been after a full century that they embraced the realities of being soul mates fully. He stood from his seat leaning against the door, and wandered towards the window to watch the falling snowflakes.

            His whole soul was grieving, but part of him felt numb. He had never been quite at odds with the other nation like they were no; had never felt the soul deep fear his people had for his own soul’s mate. It was like a deep sated poison that refused to be drained, tainting all the blood and stealing the life from the tissue around it before the doctors could even come up with a solution. He had no solution; he had no escape from the reality that had come to be.

            His soul mate was suddenly the enemy; his enemy, his people’s enemy. How did the world expect him to deal with _that_? He bit back a wordless snarl as he stared blankly at the rousing blizzard outside.

            That’s right, he thought. They _didn’t know_. And now they most likely never would.

            An arm – steadfast and strong as welded iron – wrapped around his waist, yanking him from his thoughts and absentminded wanderings, and he jerked an elbow backwards in reflex to force the arm to release him. Only, it didn’t, and in fact, its grip grew stronger, and he was whirled around to face the very nation he’d been contemplating.

            Violet eyes blazed as they stared at him, a snarl curling pale lips, “You don’t get to walk away from me, _solnyshko_ ,” he said, and even behind the fond nickname he’d been given long ago, there was a hint of malice that struck his heart, “You don’t get to leave.”

            He felt a scowl of his own forming on his lips, “ _You_ don’t get to tell me what to do,” he scoffed, feeling the hit on his own heart.

            “I didn’t court you for _decades_ only to have you run from me now,” the taller man growled, advancing until he was shoved against the window itself with the Russian leaning over him imposingly, “You’re _mine_.”

            And even though he felt a part of him, strife with tension, melt with that claim, he knew if he let that go uncontested, then his emotions would never be considered; he would give up all claims to equity in this relationship. If he let that stand, everything they would ever do would be on Russia’s terms. And that wasn’t fair, wasn’t equal; it wasn’t how a relationship _worked_.

            “Like _hell_ ,” he snarled back, feeling the temperature drop as Russia’s grip tightened impossibly around his waist, the circle of his embrace suddenly feeling as confining as the gnarled old tree roots he used to hide in when wolves were out preying and he had wandered into his brother’s lands so young.

            The wind sparked and howled, as if in agreement, and something above them tinkled – light and airy, but with a crisp note that resounded throughout the arctic gale, and, curious, his gaze was drawn upwards, violet eyes following him not that long afterwards only to freeze.

            A sprig of mistletoe, tied at the top with a soft, satin red ribbon and joined with a light bough of holly and a silky frost gold garland, hung down above them, dangling in the space right between the crowns of their heads. It almost seemed to have appeared from nowhere, immune to the frost drawing cold temperatures of the weather outside, and just as magical in the way it sparkled and glowed subtly in the arctic breeze. They stood, frozen, for a moment as they contemplated it.

            _Who would…_

            But it seemed Russia didn’t care. An arm that had wrapped around him firmly – stopping him from leaving their argument – came up, and a hand cupped his chin, tilting his face upwards, and in the split second it took for Russia to lean down, he knew what would happen.

            Their cheeks brushed together as he turned away from the taller nation. But the other denied his rejection. Russia tightened the grip he had on his chin into a firm, but gentle grasp, and tilted his face until their lips were centimeters apart once again. He felt hollow inside, insides clenching with so much want and desperation, all the fight draining out of him with one small gesture; knowing that even if anything happened now, nothing would change. Russia would leave –would slam the door behind him on the way out – and he would be alone again; alone in a bed too big for one person, wrapped in sheets that’d once held the warmth of two, in a house built for _more_ than a lonely penitentiary existence.

            But, as Russia dipped his head to close the gap between them, as their kiss under the mistletoe in the window’s frame turned into something far more than just _goodbye_ , he could not deny the other nation what he wanted. It was something they both wanted.

            “Don’t let me go,” spilled from his lips as they parted, breathless and unintentional, and his eyes widened at the realization of what he’d let loose. But instead of mockery, Russia’s eyes darkened, and he was pulled impossibly closer.

            “Never,” he returned, voice low and deep and as solemn as a vow they’d never made in front of an altar they’d never seen, desperate and possessive and _demanding_ , and “ _Never_ , I _promise_.”

            And never before had denial sounded so much like _forever_.


End file.
